Life and death of an unforgiven
by How-not-to-do-something
Summary: Just what it says on the tin. Rated T for mature themes and some disturbing moments.
1. Chapter 1

I'm dying.

Here I lay, on this blasted and ruined field on the ash plains of Armageddon. Bodies of guardsmen and Orks are strewn as far as I can see. And I can see far, even now. Even with my helmet in tatters, even with my red blood leaking into my only good eye remaining, I can see.

My armor is ruined. One pauldron is gone; blasted off by a stray shot from a plasma cannon. Friendly fire, the Guard politely call it. The rest of it is no better off. Pocket marks from a dozen varieties of weapon scar it from helmet to boot. Beneath the holes my flesh was similarity punctured. Only a faint flicker of the tired machine spirit show me it's still alive. The power source was nearly dead, just like me.

To add insult to injury, the paint is ruined.

I'm not sure why that seems to matter. Gerult, a fellow brother that I've known since I was first recruited, always fussed over his armor between battles, making sure there wasn't a scuff or scratch to mar it. He made it his mission to convince his squad-mates to share his enthusiasm for cleanliness over the years. We fought side by side for a hundred years, he never failed to take a cloth to it after every mission. He is dead.

I cough; pain courses through my chest and throat. Iron tasting blood coats my tongue.

I'm the only one left. I think. Out of fifty men, half a company's worth of superhuman warriors. Deployed in drop pods right to the lightly defended flank of the horde. The beaming Navy officer assured Captain Roak that the area was only lightly defended, nothing we couldn't handle. Roak examined the data and agreed.

The data was wrong. There was far more Orks than they said. Instead of hundreds, there was thousands. So many shots were thrown into the air as we plummeted that we were blown off course. So many that the normally impervious armor of the pod couldn't hold up. Gerult's pod was completely blown up in midair, according to the vox. Mine was merely wrecked. Two of my brothers died before the door even opened. Three, versus a couple of thousand.

Movement? I'm not sure. I hope it's imperial and not some loota.

My weapon's clip was empty in a minute. My designated weapon is a heavy bolter. That should be an indicator of my situation. Many Orks died by my actions. Pity it didn't stop my squad from dying as well. At least they didn't die alone. I hardly noticed how much I was being shot. That should've concerned me then, even ceramite has its limits.

We weren't meant to hold for more than a few minutes, long enough to clear a zone for the aircraft. And lo and behold, they came. A stormraven, carrying capacity twelve. There was supposed to be two. A flaming wreck that crashed into to ground a few heart beats later answered that particular question. Then it was fourteen versus thousands.

Definitely movement. Too small to be an Ork, though I won't rule out gretchin.

I tossed my spent weapon aside and grabbed brother Marius's bolt gun, still held in his grip inside the pod. I doubt he minded since a piece of shrapnel the length of my forearm was stuck though his head. I quietly thanked him as I pulled it away from his corpse. I'm not sure if any of the arrivals saw it. If they did, I hope they understood. I've known Marius less than I've known Gerult, only for roughly fifty years. Different recruiting times.

We fought. By the Emperor we fought. Soon thundering fire announced the presence of a battle group of Steel Legion, hastily organized support from command. Neither my brothers or the troopers spoke to each other. We couldn't, there was too many greenskins. I wish I could've convened my thanks when I could.

The odds were evened, but it wasn't enough.

It was during that time the plasma blast tore off my pauldron and a chunk of my shoulder. I don't blame the soldier. Having a choppa to the face can cause things like that. I do wish he had enough sense to take his finger off the trigger, or at least let it drop. He might've vaporized his attacker too otherwise.

Once, long ago, I was stabbed through the abdomen with a owner sword by a renegade guardsmen. That was insignificant to the pain of nearly being vaporized by a weapon crafted to fight enemies of the Imperium. The irony was not lost on me as I blacked out.

I'm growing tired. Between my injuries and my exhaustion, I don't think I can last much longer. The shape is coming closer, paying particular attention to the armored forms.

Finally it reaches me. I'm relived to see its a human, clad in the uniform of a Steel legionnaire. He examined my wrecked armor, looking for something. My relief turned into indignation as he looked closely. Not a guardsmen, but a looter. If he touches me I'll gut him, even if it's the last thing I do. It just might be.

I lifted my gauntlet, agonizingly slow. How can I kill him If I'm moving so slowly?

He sees the lifted gauntlet and nearly jumps. Good, teach him to scavenge from the dead. He scrambled to grab something from his belt, steeping just out of my reach. Damn him. It looks like a vox of some kind. He chats into it for a moment and turns away, but he stops to turn to me.

"Thank you. If not for you, command would've never known there was another horde coming our way" he says.

I pause; what's he talking about?

"I'm part of a joint task force. We're looking for wounded. I just rang up my colonel, a few of you people will be here in five. The Emperor protects" he saluted me and darted off.

I'm stunned. I thought it was incompetence that brought me here, but it was the Emperor's blessing instead. I thought I was going to die here. I cursed my lack of faith as a fresh spasm of pain lashed out.

I close my eye, just as the armored form of another marine enters my field of view. It looks like an apothecary. I'm not sure if he knows if I'm still alive or not. As he speaks, I realize my fate.

"Severe injuries. But, a veteran of the third company. A terrible loss" he spoke to himself. It was the last thing I heard as I fell unconscious again. It was the last thing I ever heard with my own senses.

I am brother Morro, veteran sergeant of the Angels of Redemption Third Company.

I am dead.

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**This insignificant piece was inspired by "confessions of a wayward son", by (o). I came up with it on my way home, and it rung in my head too much for let me to let it go. Consider this filler for Direct Intervention while I get that sorted out. As well, consider it an homage of sorts.**

**Now that my true colors have been revealed, I have to run. Run! Before they ge-**


	2. Chapter 2

_Eutul IV. Located in the Cassius sector of the Segmentum Pacificus, the sixth planet of the Eutul system, and is one of two inhabitable worlds in the system._

_Planetary classification: Civilized world. Climate is largely temperate, with small deserts and oceans spanning approximately thirty percent of its surface. Inhabitants are well aware of the wider Imperium, and have regular contact thanks to the (relatively) calm warp. Warp storms, while devastating, are fortunately rare._

_Population: approximately four hundred million._

_Hives: none._

_Mechanicus presence: standard._

_Imports: Astropaths, Mechanicus expertise (enginseers, techpriests, etc), rare luxury items (Delphian Moon-sugar predominantly), military supplies, promethium stores._

_Exports: Basic factory products (engine components of Leman Russ battle tanks), food supplies, local luxury items (Mary buds, a beautiful but worthless flower that is in high demand to several nobles in nearby systems), Guard Regiments._

_Tithe status: nominal. Below average pysker occurrence. Causes unknown._

_Notes: home planet of the Eutul Raiders, a guard regiment of some renown. Gained minor fame after the Sulu crusade against Eldar in M40.989. Continues to supply said regiment, has also raised several more over the years._

_Additional notes: in M37.331 a massive uprising took place, laying waste to much of the planet before being put down by a force of Cadian shock troops. Chaos involvement was suspected but never confirmed, the uprising was blamed on the incompetent leadership of former planetary governor. No major rebellious actions have taken place since._

A completely unremarkable world.

In M41.310, a battle barge belonging to the Angels of Redemption broke through the warp over Eutul. The commander of the vessel, one Captain Sachiel, communicated to the planetary governor his purpose (after the locals checked to see if they were who they said they were, one can never be too careful); to gather supplies. He made it a point to request it, even though he had every right to simply order the little man around.

The governor agreed of course. How could he refuse? I believe Sachiel's decision was in order to keep the populace calm. Astartes are terrifying to mortals after all. By asking instead of demanding, he gave an air of humbleness, and therefore kept the locals relaxed. If they governor knew the reputation the Angels had earned, he might not have been so accommodating.

Fortunately for both parties, that year was particularly productive. Especially of foodstuffs, items the marines wanted in particular since their own stores were close to depleted.

However, the governor sprung a foolishly vain gesture: he invited the captain and several of his officers to a feast at his palace. The captain politely declined, but added another request. Without even asking what it was, the governor agreed. I doubt he would've refused even if he did. That night, a handful of Stormravens departed from the ship along with the transporter Thunderhawks. Their occupants were chaplains, armed with arcane machines and scrutinizing eyes.

The Angels of Redemption were recruiting.

They were there for only a week. The report, written by Captain Sachiel, gave a favorable impression. Though the planet had a higher degree of civilization than they normally preferred, the results spoke for themselves. A dozen boys were claimed, each one a potential Astartes. Any given feral or feudal world might yield that number as well, but not in such a short period of time. The report added a recommendation to make it a primary recruiting world if the new neophytes performed well.

Of those dozen boys, two stood out. The first was a lucky find, discovered long after the fact to be a latent Pysker. Somehow the local government failed to capture him as the tithe demanded. That one later became a formidable Librarian, training under Ezekiel himself according to rumor. He fell against the Tau two centuries later, after single-handedly destroying one of their larger battlesuits, a Riptide I believe it was called.

The second was an odd case, nearly missed. The Marine, one Chaplain Potrow, traveled via bike to several of the smaller towns outside of the main cities. He had already picked out three recruits though one refused to leave (the Angels did not take those that didn't want to go, oddly enough) and was making a last round before signaling the transport to leave.

The last one he stopped to inspect was a small farming village, no more than a thousand souls in total. The leader of the village had received word from his counterparts from the others and had arranged a welcome ceremony. The Chaplain must've been surprised; he had anticipated simply riding into the town square and asking the local leader to see the children. Instead he found most of the population already waiting for him, full of festivities.

Unlike Sachiel, when the mayor sprung his offer Potrow agreed. That night the town hall was filled to the brim with the locals. According to his report they treated it as a celebration, with feasting and dancing all around. The mayor chatted constantly, though the old Marine hardly replied to anything the man said. Not out of malice you see; he had his own business to take care of.

He was there for a little under three hours, answering a few questions, sipping from a draught of water, and scrutinizing. He felt relaxed, enough to remove the skull mask of his office. While the locals celebrated, he observed. As a veteran of a thousand wars, he felt his powers of observation were top notch.

Yet somehow, a boy nearly managed to steal one of his vox. After stopping the mayor from trying to gut the child, Potrow inspected the boy and found him to satisfy his standards. The mayor was furious, but allowed the boy to be taken. Half an hour later a Stormraven landed outside the town and picked up the Chaplain and a new recruit, the last one taken from that world in that year.

That recruit was me.

It's strange really. For most Astartes, we know nothing of our origins. The most we might have is "I hail from Macragge", or "I was of the Valg clan". But here I am, reading the handful of reports that detail my own beginning. It's surreal. Normally these documents are restricted to the rank and file. Those that reach the second or first companies could access them, if they desired. Most don't.

There is a chapter out there who's battle cry is "knowledge is power, guard it well". We if the Angels of Redemption don't repeat those words, but we do follow them closely. I should know, given my new status...But less on that.

Of my former life, I remember little. A hint of something now and again, a sight or smell that triggers a long forgotten memory. Rarely, I glimpse things in my dreams. Nothing solid, nothing tangible. The best I can get is generalizations. For instance, I don't remember my father's face or voice. I know he was a stern but kind man, and he was out of town when I was taken. I learned more about myself from these reports than my own memories.

There is an exception however. One memory that has stayed clear to me for all those years. Throughout the constant training, the painful augmentations, the endless war, I remember.

That night, so long ago.

I remember there were other boys, only a few. One of them was the local leader. We snuck away from the crowd, intent on something, I didn't know what. When I and the group were outside, the leader revealed his plan: a challenge. There was a small trinket on the Space Marine's person, and one of us had to take it.

Naturally, we accepted. We crept back inside, staying as far out of sight as possible. Once this small gaggle of foolish children were close though, they had a change of heart. Despite the lead boy's condemnations and insults, the few there decided shame was preferable to whatever punishment could await them. All but one.

This portion is the clearest. Even now, I can still hear the beat of the music. I can still see the festive light. And I can still feel the crippling fear as I crawled on my stomach towards the Marine.

I don't know why I did it. Pride perhaps, the others were too frightened to carry it out, so I would show them who was the bravest. Maybe it was false bravado, feeling my sneaking skills were sufficient to keep me hidden from the Marine. Or maybe it was simply stubborn stupidity. No matter the reason, I crawled towards him.

My actions were masked by the people as they partied. If not for them, stealth skills or no I would have been detected. I saw the town mayor, a man who's name I've long since forgotten, happily chatting away to some wench. He didn't see me. No one did.

Once I was within arms reach of the Marine, I paused. It was only then I realized that I didn't know what the item the other boy wanted was. I was less than a meter away from a superhuman killing machine with literally centuries of experience, trying to steal something but not knowing what it was. To say I felt stupid was an understatement. With no other option, I chose at random. Eutul was by no means technologically advanced, they were ahead enough to know common machines. Because if that, I knew a vox when I saw one.

I slowly reached out, palm splayed, already plotting my escape plan. The farthest I got with that plan was running like a daemon was chasing me and only stopping once I reached the next town. I had just wrapped my fingers around the casing of the vox, when I had a sudden and terrifying impulse. Despite the folly of the impulse, I obeyed it, and looked up.

And locked eyes with the surprised Space Marine.

We stared into each other's eyes for what seemed like hours, but was only a few seconds at most. As to be expected, I tried to bolt. Prize or no prize, I was getting out of there. The Marine's armored gauntlet grabbing my shirt put an end to that endeavor. I felt myself rising into the air, leaving the ground.

I saw the mayor, finally noticing Potrow's problem. He quickly rose to his feet, sputtering mixed curses and apologies while his face became red. The man knocked his chair away and started to stomp towards me. I have faced down Bloodletters on Juggernauts, Khornate cultists, and a very furious Warboss. I have never seen anyone or anything more angry in my long life. The look on his face spelt my doom.

Even if I was capable of speaking, what happened next made sure I wouldn't. The black clad Marine raised his other gauntlet absently at him, and he stopped. In the background, the music and dancing came to a stuttering stop as people realized what had happened. The mayor slid into incredulousness, while mere moments ago he was seething with anger.

But I wasn't focusing on them. I was transfixed by the large face that was a dozen centimeters away from mine. The look of surprise was gone, replaced by careful scrutinization. In the background, I registered the deafening silence.

"Can you speak boy?" He said in a baritone voice, startling many people nearby.

I gulped down a wad of fear and nodded frantically.

"Then speak" he said.

Understandably enough, it took me several seconds to find my voice.

"Y-y-y-yes s-sir" I stuttered.

"Good" he replaced pleasantly.

His grip on me loosened somewhat, but more importantly he lowered his arm. When he did let go, I dropped a few centimeters onto my feet. To this day I don't know how I managed to stay standing. Then, to add to the incredible, he lowered himself to one knee. Once again, his face was a dozen centimeters from mine, only now he was level with me.

"What is your name boy?" he asked.

"M-morro" I answered fearfully.

"Why did you try to steal from me morro?" he continued. His voice maintained that high degree of pleasantness, something that did little to calm my nerves.

"I...I-I was dared to sir" I replied.

"Really. Were you alone dared to?" he questioned. I shook my head.

"Why did the others not try?" he asked, finally sweeping his gaze away, perhaps searching for the other children.

"I-I don't k-know sir" I replied. Try as I might, the stutter did not leave my tone. He looked back at me, either finding what he was searching for or not.

"They were scared no?" he continued.

"I-I suppose" I offered.

"I am a Space Marine, yet that didn't deter you. Why?" he questioned.

I couldn't think of an answer. Why did I keep going? The other boys chose the shame of living over whatever could await them. But I didn't. After a minute of silence, he did the most incredulous thing I had ever seen in my life up to that point.

He smiled.

"I've been looking all over for someone like you. So far, I've found a few, but not enough. We are always on the lookout for more" he said. The full impact of his words hit me only after a moment of comprehension.

"Come with me Morro. I cannot promise you will live a long life. I cannot even promise your survival. But what I can promise you is glory. The chance to join a brotherhood, an elite group. There are many monsters that lurk between the stars. We push them back, burning them away with fire and steel. We are the Emperor's sword, instruments of His will. Join me boy" he said, rising to his colossal height.

"Join me, and live like no other."

What happened after that is only a blur. I cannot remember the stunned faces of the people around me, nor the looks of my long lost friends. That was the night everything changed.

Potrow wasn't lying. I have lived a long life, burning away the Emperor's many foes, fought war after war. I have lived. And I have died.

I was not the only recruit taken from Eutul. I was not the last. Of the group that I was with, only one failed as an Aspirant. Prime recruiting worlds with thousands of years of history cannot match such results. Today, fully half of the Angels of Redemption's recruits hail from that world. I have never returned, the closest I have ever been is upper orbit.

My origins are not exceptional, nor are they legendary. But they are mine. Even now, as a part of the Deathwing, this hasn't changed. Rank has it's privileges, and this is mine. If nothing else, this is mine.

But that is not the end to my tale. There is so much to a Space Marine career, and I would realize later that recruiting is simply the easy part.

**A/N: Not sure why I'm plugging away at this when DI needs updating. Oh well.**

**BIBOTOT: thanks for the encouragement. I do realize this is pretty cliche as stories go, and it won't be exceptional by any means. Also, thanks for the grammar catch. I have a hard time with correct plural terms, so please forgive any errors like that. Or not, this is a story about an Unforgiven after all...**


End file.
